Words
by bluebel703
Summary: 1X06 Skin Tag. Sam and Dean escape the authorities, lay low in a backwoods cabin, and reflect on things that are best left unsaid (Gen)
1. Chapter 1

Even with their driving, it is a 10 hour drive from Missouri to East Chain, Minnesota. Sam drives the first four of those hours, stopping only once they cross into Iowa. Even then, stopping only means refueling, buying an extra-large bag of Doritos, looking up directions on the laptop, and, thankfully, getting Dean back behind the wheel.

They don't talk about the fact that Dean is a wanted fugitive. Sam is the only one who acknowledges it, and only by turning the radio on to the news and listening to a breathless description of a manhunt.

When it's Dean's turn to drive, he flips the music back on. He sees the beginning of a protest on Sam's lips but, for whatever reason, Sam closes his mouth and looks out the window at the rows of dying corn stalks instead.

Dean understands the tension, he's been on the run a few times, but Sam hasn't been, not recently anyway.

Dean still remembers John shaking him awake in the middle of the night, an urgency in his voice that was unusual, even when they were hunting. John carried Sam to the car and didn't talk or turn the radio on, which was strange and scary.

John usually softened in the car. Both Sam and Dean learned early that if they needed to ask for something it was best to do so when John was driving. It was there that John told stories about Mary, agreed to let Sam go out for soccer, and whenever a serious discussion needed to be had, John took them for a drive.

That time though, there was a fear radiating off John that Dean had never sensed before, that spoke of something bigger then ghosts and werewolves. Sam slept where John had left him - with his feet in Dean's lap and his head against the window. Dean gripped his little brother's shins as he slept, watching in the rearview mirror as emotions flickered across John's eyes like bugs skittering across water.

John caught his eye and lifted the corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile.

"Get some rest, Dean," John said, turning on the music. "Everything is OK."

It was weeks later Dean learned that a guest at the motel called Child Services on John after seeing Sam and Dean carrying groceries home alone.

Dean looks over at Sam who had fallen asleep, his chin on his chest. Thankfully, neither of them sustained serious injuries with the Skinwalker, but both of them were cracked over the head. Sam was attacked by a bookshelf. They are both tired.

Dean wakes Sam for a concussion check and pee break an hour later. They trade and Dean sleeps until they arrive at the Pastor Jim's wooden cabin just outside of East Chain, tucked in behind Evergreens.

They had been there a few times as children, once for their only truly enjoyable Christmas, and in spite of the manhunt, Dean feels himself relax.

"We're here," Sam says unnecessarily, relief evident in his voice.

Dean turns and looks at his brother more carefully. He is paler than usual, his mouth still set in a firm line. 11 hour drives aren't fun, but they are used to them.

"You OK?" he asks.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, just tired, and my head."

Dean frowns. Head wounds are nothing to mess around with. Especially since they manage to rack up so many. Even John, happy to hunt with a broken bone, would treat a concussion with appropriate respect.

"Well, we have nowhere to go and nothing to do," Dean says. "Let's get inside."

The cabin is small but functional. A little yellow kitchen, worn leather couches pointed towards an ancient TV. There is even some mac and cheese in the cupboard.

"Perfect," Sam says, shaking the box.

Dean brings their bags into the little room with the twin beds that he remembers from their Christmas in the cabin. Briefly, he considers staying in the Master Bedroom, but that's Pastor Jim's room and staying their feels wrong, not to mention he has to wake Sam up every few hours.

He plops Sam's laptop bag down on the bed and considers it for a moment. It's not really Sam's laptop, it's _their_ laptop. Two was an extravagance they couldn't afford and Dean only used it rarely (mostly for porn), and he could tell Sam – who had his own laptop that burned at Stanford – felt possessive over it.

But Dean is being chased down by the feds so he opens the laptop. There are several different tabs open, all to the State Bar of California website. Coldness starts to spread through Dean's stomach, and even though he knows he should respect the meager privacy Sam has left, Dean clicks through the tabs. All the tabs are about good character requirements, and exceptions to those requirements and appeals.

Dean thinks back to picking up Sam at Stanford, to his hesitance to use a fake ID.

 _I can't be a lawyer with a criminal record, Dean._

Dean hadn't really thought about what his arrest – what harboring a fugitive – would mean for Sam. He never wanted Sam to be a lawyer, to have an apple pie life, not really. But he never really wanted Sam to be a hunter either. He just wanted them to be together, happy, even if he knew it wasn't possible.

"Dean, what are you doing in there. Come on. Dinner's ready."

Dean closes the computer and swallowed hard.

Sam had gotten hurt, had just seen enough of his old friends to remember that he left people, good people, people who cared about him, in Stanford. Honestly, Dean was surprised Sam had stuck with him this long.

"OK," Sam said putting the Mac and Cheese on the table with a flourish. It was topped with crumbled bacon bits, Dean's favorite when they were kids. "Look, I also found chips and salsa."

Another childhood indulgence. Salsa was expensive, at least compared to plain chips and Dean feels himself start to smile despite discovering Sam's web history.

They sit down to eat, and Dean listens half-heartedly as Sam explains their plan to lay low for the next few weeks. It sounds awful and boring and Dean still isn't sure why Sam isn't high-tailing away.

"It might be best for you to go on," Dean imagines saying. "Don't worry about me."

But he can't bring himself to say it, can't quite find the words. Besides, Sammy knew, didn't he? He read through the same information Dean did. He knew if he got caught that he'd never get called to the bar. He knew he was risking his career with this, more than he usually did. He was staying though, wasn't he? He was making Dean mac and cheese and talking about old movies and – oh god – he wasn't leave. He was trying to cheer Dean up. He had swallowed down all his own anxieties, all his own pain, and had silently but firmly put Dean first.

"Dean?" Sam says.

"Huh?"

"I said, there are some good places to hike around here. Maybe we could take a walk tomorrow, sight the guns, make some more silver bullets."

Sam takes a large bite of mac and cheese, his big eyes still on Dean. He looks twelve again and Dean feels a tidal wave of love wash over him. He doesn't need to bring up the California Bar. He doesn't need to bring up any of it. There is a time and a place to talk and this isn't it


	2. Chapter 2

The cabin isn't bad. The sheets are musty, but the beds are comfortable. There is a kitchen and Sam buys groceries and Dean cooks. They spend most nights in front of a fire playing crib and drinking beer.

It's a hunter's hide-out, so had wifi, and every morning Sam tracks the FBI's efforts to track Dean, while his brother splits wood outside. Dean never asks how it's going and Sam never tells him.

Sometimes, when Sam can't sleep, he replays the words the Skinwalker said.

 _See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends. You could have a life. Me? I know I'm a freak. And sooner or later, everybody's gonna leave me._

One night they sit in front of the fire – both of them bored and buzzed and silent. Sam reads. Dean watches something stupid with a lot of guns and explosions. It reminds Sam of nights in their childhood waiting for John to return.

The books Sam studied varied. The motels and states varied. Sam's degree of worry over his Dad varied, but what never changed was that whenever Dean wasn't hunting, he was sitting on the couch next to Sam. It was an unvarying theme in Sam's childhood, Dean being there.

He always thought about how much Dean had given up for hunting, for their Dad, but he had never really considered how much Dean had given up for him. There were entire lives Dean could have lived if he never had to look out for Sam, if he hadn't looked out for Sam so well. Because really, if Sam thought about it, he knew Dean loved hunting, loved their Father, but it was Sam he was willing to sacrifice everything for.

He looks over at his brother who is laughing at his screen and feels that adoration that he hadn't really felt in years, that simple little brother adoration that caused him to follow Dean around for years, that made his brother as a superhero.

He opens his mouth ready to deny everything the Shapeshifter said that wasn't true and apologize for everything that was. What he really wants to do is silence that voice inside Dean's head that tells him he would be left behind, that he wasn't worthy of loyalty or love. But he knows Dean won't listen to him, not really. His brother only ever put limited stock in words. Actions always mattered more to Dean.

Dean laughs again at his screen and Sam closes his mouth.

There is a time and a place to talk and this isn't it.

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